


Thrill

by kiraqueen



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: inspired by hotline miami
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiraqueen/pseuds/kiraqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're pretty messed up, aren't you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrill

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short story inspired by Hotline Miami. Might add on to it later.

     You are relaxing in your apartment on a Saturday night. It’s around 1am and you are scanning the empty shelves of your fridge for what feels like the hundredth time, feeling a dull ache in your stomach from looking over the same nothingness so many times. You decide to order a pizza instead. By hanging up the phone, you have placed an order. It seems pointless to say, but it was meant to happen. The fridge is empty, you had no choice but to order pizza. You could have starved yourself, but _why on earth would you do that?_ You remember the silence in the room, and quickly cease it with the buzzing of the TV. You realize silence is utterly disturbing. It quakes your thought and makes the sounds of the unknown too pronounced. You press the buttons on the remote without any care as to where they transport you to. Only the thick glass screen separates you from another reality. Your stomach settles a little, reminding yourself that you are not part of their reality. You are behind closed doors, closed windows, in the third story of your apartment. This is _your_ reality.

  
     The doorbell rings. You stand up, tossing the remote aside, and open the door to greet the familiar pizza delivery guy. He knows you, you know him. In fact, you are on a first name basis. His name is Tony. He always gives you a discount on your order, along with an extra side of your choice. You _always_ choose the salad. You don’t even like salad, but your girlfriend does. Tony recommends different sides, but no matter what, you always choose salad. He doesn’t know that you have a girlfriend. You know you should tell him, so why haven’t you? You’ve realized for the past two months that Tony has a thing for you. Hell, he’s even given you a blowjob. Don’t you remember? Tony’s not allowed to give you discounts, but he does because he knows you appreciate it. Tony sure does give good head.  
     You hand Tony seven dollars and fifty-three cents, wishing him a good night. You notice his face when you close the door behind you. He glowers bleakly. You’ve seen the way he walks to his car. You’ve chosen not to look anymore.  
     
     You set the box down on the coffee table and pick a predetermined slice from it. It’s gooey, exploding a zingy, sweet taste in your mouth, like Tony tasted when he gave you head. You blink twice, forcing the memory back into its safe place under lock and key. Your girlfriend is in bed. She’s been sick for a few days. You told her to rest, though she didn’t want to. She _really_ didn’t want to. You forced her to rest. _How cruel of you_. Of course, you’re just looking after her. You finish your slice and reach for your bottle of Coke, when you see something pop up on the television. You squint your eyes at it. You read, _Breaking News_  and following it, your pupils dilate. Your fingers grip the bottle tightly, condensation and sweat gathering in your palm. Your wrists begin to throb and your head pulsates. Tremors startle you as the blood sloshes in your neck and down to your feet. The words across the screen are foreign. You reread the headline until it makes sense. Until it clicks.

  
  
BREAKING NEWS: MURDER IN A MIAMI CLUB LEAVES 17 DEAD

  
  
    You don’t know why your heart is stuttering. You have nothing to do with this incident. You are at home, relaxing on a Saturday night. It’s 2 in the morning and the incident happened two hours ago. You were at home two hours ago, right here. You were scanning your fridg- no, watching porno on your laptop. That’s right. You set your Coke down, a cold sweat in your palm. You don’t watch porn. You have, but you didn’t like it. _Don’t see the point_ , you thought. You wanted _real_ love, not heartless fucking. And that’s why you have a girlfriend. You’ve only ever had two other girlfriends whom both cheated on you. While it took you courage to build another relationship, you did it, and you’ve been happy ever since. She’s like you, except not at all. She’s _nothing_ like you. You’re a repulsive human being, she isn’t. But she loves you anyway.

  
    You slowly pick up the remote to change the channel when the live camera footage displays the dead- no, _slaughtered_ people on the floor of the club. It pans from all angles, showing grotesque images you would assume the news wouldn't think twice about censoring. Intestines ripped savagely through victims’ mouths, detached body parts, eyes gouged out, feet twisted in impossible directions, some whose faces are unrecognizable. You feel your gut twisting similarly. You see a witness- practically a victim, being interviewed. Your stomach feels knotted and throttled, but settles once you realize you don’t know these people. Something catches your attention. Something stands out, and when it makes its way into your skull, you choke back vomit. It’s not the victim you notice, but what she says.

  
_“I couldn’t see his face_.”

  
    Your blood curdles as you change the channel, only instead of a soap opera or late night show, it’s static. You try flipping through them again, all static. This is a dream. It _must_ be a dream, you think. You turn off the TV and head to bed. You glance at the lump in the covers, relieved that it was your girlfriend. She’s still here. You strip down to boxers and a t-shirt and slide into the sheets. You stare at her bare back. She’s breathing, so subtle it seems like she isn’t. You want to touch her, but you’re afraid. Afraid you’ll destroy her flawless presence somehow. Only, she isn’t flawless. She’s as heavy with pain and guilt as you are, but for different reasons. You ache to touch her. Your fingertips sting with cold, eyes burning with aridity. You’re too paranoid to close your eyes. You fear she’ll disappear once you open them again. This isn’t a dream, this is your reality. _The reality on the TV isn't yours_ , you remind yourself. That’s why when you disconnected it, the room went black. You felt sick because two realities were exposed. That’s _unnatural_.  

  
    You hear a distant song begin to flow invitingly into your ears. It’s slow, hauntingly harmonic and horribly familiar. It’s directionless. You hear waves, salty and warm, swallowing your body. You see palm trees swaying carelessly about, a fuchsia sunset tugging for your attention. Then, you halt. 

  
     A silhouette of red fills your vision. You realize at this moment, _you are without regrets_. You feel exhausted, and let the waves carry you to shore…

 

\--

  
  
    You awake in the evening, startled by the phone. You rub sleep out of your eyes and answer it, not allowing yourself to process the call, or even the person on the other end of it. Automatic. Your head hovers in a restless haze. You passed your girlfriend watching TV, eating leftover pizza from last night. You make out the request on the other line, ending the call. Pressing a cold object into your pocket and heavier object in one hand, locking the door behind you, you give a knowing glance to your girlfriend before stepping out.

  
    You make your way down to the shop, greeting your buddy at the counter. He smiles and slams a glass of god-knows-what down in front of you, along with a copy of _Russkies_. You waver a ten-dollar bill, but he shakes his head. “Nah man, it’s on the house!”

  
    You listen on the stereo, a familiar tune you nod your head to. Leaving the shop, you feel ready to go.

  
  
_I’ve got a good one for you._

  
  
     You grip the steering wheel, accelerating with adrenaline.

  
  
_They’ve cause a lot of trouble._

  
  
     Your heart quivers with imperial anxiety.

 

_Take care of them for me._

 

    You exit the car, pulling your identity with it- the identity everyone will see. You pull it over your eyes, and gripping the heavy object beside you, you carry no burden.

  
  
Knock knock.

  
  
    Smoke fills the air, the thick scent of blood on your lips and a tune reverberating through your body. Shards of glass collide with the skin, loud cracks emitting from their skulls. Bodies blanket the floor. A quick _thunk_ catches your attention. You pivot on your feet, desperate eyes meeting the predator. No time to act nor think. You lodge forward, swinging the bat dead-on, heads gracing the air as if they weren’t stationary to begin with. _Home run._ This was getting to be a monotonous task.

  
  
_Have fun. Get dirty._

  
  
    You drop the burdening object and reach for the cold one in your pocket. You see your reflection, though, it wasn’t you. It’s caked in blood. Not your blood, of course. Maybe a little was yours. Maybe you just got too _excited_. You press the blade to your palm, then grip the handle with one hand. The prey struggles beneath you, until you tip the knife’s fresh end downward and hurtle it into his flesh, his body ejecting liquid into your eyes. Bearing hellish teeth, the grin you wear conclusively on the outside is nothing what shows behind it. What’s behind the mask is much more sinister.

  
  
Vacancy.

  
  
    You return the grip on the knife, driving it further in each time until he’d been cut not-so-cleanly in half. You repeat this, and somehow it feels greater and greater each time. Each time, more effective. Sometimes savage, sometimes slow. Just like sex, only better. Something erupts within you. Something like a climax, but it never fully reaches its peak. You drop your tool, prey just swarming to you now. Knocking them down, bludgeoning them to a pitiful pulp with the bat, they still struggle, though, like a mouse dangling from a cat’s claw. You make an incision somewhere in the torso, pulling out what seemed like an endless stream of innards. This was it. You jerk back, crowing in release as you feel the hot, sticky mass of gore sprawled out without rhyme or reason in your shaky hands. The strobe lights are still flickering. The music suddenly changes. A new energy, something like nausea and euphoria mixed hurls at you as fast as the hunger pangs. You rise to your feet, tearing through them like a hot rod on the indigo highway.  
    Anxiety surges through your veins, but that’s what keeps you going. Paranoia crawls in through the open spaces. Smoke continues to fill your lungs. Blood pumps into your organs and out of theirs, a cycle. A gruesome and utterly beautiful cycle. The blood on your lip ripens, but you dare not taste it. You’re not some fairy-tale, night-bound creature.

  
  
_You’re an animal._

  
  
    You feel heat rise up under your collar. Your breathing is unbalanced from shock. Feverish moans subside and an eerie absence exposes the room. All but the sounds of a disco curb the silence. This place might never open its doors again, you realize. And it’s all your doing. It was pure, even with the smoke and frequent suicide-seeking lowlifes. That was the norm of any city, any small town. You infected it. You struck your drum and death struck yours. It made your heart pound. The redolent scent of obliteration is still hot on your tongue.

  
  
Sirens.

  
  
     You readily gather your tools and exit the building, leaving no trace but a beautiful massacre.  
  
   

\--

 

     You take refuge in your car, destination: home. You find yourself following a different path though, down a long and winding road. The waves blur reality out of focus. Stepping onto the soft sand, a body is bleeding out. The tide tries desperately to grasp it, just barely missing it each time. It swallows its fluids, depressingly yearning for the rest of it, yet somehow it was harmonious. The rhythm of the waves, in time to the slowly swaying body, almost like a song you recall hearing. The scene is ethereal, something like heaven hits you in a distant reverie. You will go back to your apartment, sleep, the phone will ring, take care of business. Lather, rinse, repeat.  
  
     You press a hand to your forehead, evening the pooling blood filling your face. So hot. Voices echo behind you, then slowly shroud you entirely. The body becomes flaccid in your vision, as you collapse on the golden landscape. You forget all that is around you. You are apart of the scene now. This is your reality, and you are, under law in your mind, _in love._  
 

     


End file.
